


Time

by mitsuyo



Category: Founder of Diabolism, Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 13:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitsuyo/pseuds/mitsuyo
Summary: Where time doesn't heal all wounds.





	Time

He felt bitterness.

 

Regret.

 

Listlessness.

 

His hand trembled slightly as he caressed the etched, sunken characters of ‘Suiban,’ remembering the brotherhood they both had sworn long ago.

 

Yet he was the one that plunged the blade through his chest in reckless anger.

 

In misdirected blame.

 

The fury he felt then. The blinding anger that raged within him, was still fresh at the time. The death of his father and mother, the combined with the fate of his sister, overwhelmed him. 

 

He bit his lips, quickly taking his hands off the ebony sheath, as if burned. He doesn’t deserve to even touch it. Not now. 

 

Not ever.

 

He stared at his quivering hands, still remembering the wetness of the red, red blood that stained his palms. The same red in the eyes that met his own, full of betrayal, anguish, and broken acceptance.

 

Even time could not lessen the pain. The pain only grew, with each year that passes. With each reminder that everyone that he loved is gone. That he is the only one that carries their memories.

  
  


That he was the one that killed him.

  
  


His balled his hands into fists, still trembling, bringing his hands to his face, his hands again, now wet with the droplets of his silent tears.

  
  


Time will never be kind to him.  

  
  


_ “Wei Ying...” _

  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

He regretted ever walking away from him. He regretted not fighting for him. Not forcing him to come back to Gusu with him.

 

_ Not telling him that he loved him. _

 

And that he always will.

 

Each year-- each passing day--

 

He stands before the early sunrise, witnessing the dawn of a new day. The golden slivers of light streaks across his pristine white robes, and-- if he closes his eyes, and tilts his face towards the warmth, 

 

he could almost feel the warmth of the lips he yearns most for.

 

He could almost taste the brightness of the man that once filled his heart with staggering purpose, love, and happiness.

 

Because  _ he  _ was his sun. His day. His  _ meaning _ .

 

The dewy, blooming flowers that littered the mountain fed, once again, from his trembling form as he broke down, sobbing.

 

_ “Wei Ying…” _

  
  
  
  



End file.
